Le Sacre du Printemps
by frankenfeels
Summary: Sequel to "Moved On". Sherlock and John continue to search for Moriarty, especially after what just happened to Molly.
1. Chapter 1

Molly Hooper.

Dr. Molly Hooper.

Doctrine in forensic pathology from Oxford University. Top in her class. Two older brothers. Father—bank teller—mother—housewife. Husband—neurosurgeon.

The nicest person you could ever want to meet.

Loved cats, but loved zombies as well.

Forced to take ballet when she was young. Her mother wanted her to do at least _one _girly thing. She was in ballet only for a few years before her mother gave up on it. Molly still used to be a "ballerina", alone in her sweats in her living room—with the blinds closed.

Molly Hooper. Used to have a glass of wine every night before bed to wind down after spending all day cutting up bodies, to relax herself before going to bed to face another day, or to forget how a certain someone made her look like a complete fool that day.

Every weekend or so, she would go down to the local homeless shelter and spend a few hours there, entertaining and serving. She was raised a Catholic, but, very rarely, went to church, although she didn't eat meat on Fridays (out of habit) and, when she remembered, she gave something up for Lent.

She had a cat named Toby, her two best friends were Meena and Caroline, she still watched cartoons although she was in her thirties, and she was allergic to strawberries and Bermuda grass.

Dr. Molly Hooper died on British Flight 108 to Rome on her honeymoon, but, then again...


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes had a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach ever since Molly died. Eighty-five people were on that flight and the investigators found eighty-five bodies. All of the bodies were burnt beyond recognition, but they found Molly Oliversson, from her bones and from her brown hair that seemed to survive the explosion.

But, where was her wedding ring? Sherlock had asked the authorities. '_Everybody else's jewelry had survived the crash, but where is Molly's ring? Her earrings were found and even her cheap metal bracelet was found, but no ring.'_

They dismissed him._ 'How can someone act like that after a tragedy like this?' _they muttered to each other. _'It was an accident, not a terrorist act. There was _no _sign of it at all.'_

The final verdict: instrument failure and possible pilot error. _The aircraft, which left from__London__and was headed to__Rome, was forced to divert towards Jersey to avoid a storm. Examination of the aircraft's__flight data recorder__(FDR) revealed that shortly after this diversion, the aircraft's__airspeed__began to fall to an alarmingly slow airspeed. In response, the pilots repeatedly increased power from the engines in order to maintain airspeed. Seeing no improvement in the aircraft's airspeed, the pilots then contacted the control tower in__Jersey Airport__and requested clearance to descend to a lower altitude. After receiving no response, the pilots lowered the aircraft's wing__slats__to maintain their altitude and lower the plane's__stall speed. When lowering the slats however, one of them was torn from the aircraft, causing catastrophic asymmetry in the airflow over the wings. The aircraft immediately became uncontrollable and crashed._

_According to an investigation by the__Royal and French Air Forces, the__Pitot tube—the primary instrument for measuring the aircraft's airspeed—froze when the aircraft passed through a cloud, blocking the instrument and causing it to give a false reading. Compounding this problem was the failure of the alarm designed to report such a malfunction (raising serious questions about inspection irregularities by the Royal Air Force). Thinking that the aircraft was flying at dangerously low speeds, the pilots increased power to the engines and then deployed the slats. Far from flying at the low speed reported by the instruments however, the aircraft was actually exceeding its safe cruising speed, and far above a safe speed for deploying slats. During the deployment of the slats, one was torn off by the force of the high-speed airflow traveling over the wing, which caused the aircraft to become unflyable and enter a steep descent._

_During the descent, the FDR recorded an increase in the airspeed from 300 to 800 km/h in three seconds, which could only signify the sudden unfreezing of the Pitot tube. Specialists estimated that the aircraft crashed perpendicularly to the ground at a speed of 1200 km/h, leaving a crater 70 meters wide and 10 deep_

Nevertheless, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade all had the gnawing feeling that something wasn't right, even at her funeral. Both Sherlock and John stayed in their pajamas and robes for a week and a half. It had taken an intervention from Sarah, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and, yes, Mycroft to get them out of their runt.

After that, John quit his job at the hospital and took Mycroft up on his offer to "spy" on Sherlock. Although, Sherlock and John were already frantically searching for Moriarty after Molly died they stepped up their searches considerably. Six months went by and Sherlock and John were no closer to finding Moriarty. Until one morning, when Sherlock and John lumbered up the stairs after a night of surveillance...


	3. Chapter 3

_October 19, 2011_

_I am becoming increasingly worried about Sherlock_. _Today he "saw" Molly again (the fifth time this month). I won't mention any of this to Mycroft (if he doesn't know already), but I might eventually if Sherlock continues to pull stunts like this._ _But, I'm worried about Sherlock more than usual. He didn't cry at Molly's funeral or since, but I'm not really surprised. Honestly, I would be more surprised and worried if Sherlock _really _did cry, so just forget what I said before._

_But—but this is just unnerving. Today, when we were following a trail of a murder victim, he ran off because he "saw Molly". He chased after this "phantom" for almost three miles before he reached the docks, defeated and exhausted. When he saw me, he ran off once more—with a hurt look—and when I finally found him again, he was in a coffee shop (looking like he did before he ran off—cool, collective, and arrogant), where he gave a snide remark about how I needed to "keep up" with him or else he would just get a dog. I brought him some coffee before I knocked his teeth out and when I came back, he was unusually quiet. After our little "coffee break"—that was filled with awkward silence—we got back on the trail and, later that evening, found her murderer. It was her co-worker, Stanley Lincoln..._

John was writing in the journal that he kept specifically about Sherlock and his "illnesses". He showed it to no one—especially not Mycroft—and wasn't entirely sure if even Sherlock knew about it. It contained his personal thoughts of Sherlock and of his analyses of him. Such as,

_September 3, 2010: Bi-polar: after telling a calm Sherlock that there was no milk for his tea, he threw a tantrum_. _November 7, 2010: Tourette's: The left side of Sherlock's face kept twitching—he told me he was winking ("Winking at what? The dead body? Anderson?") —and he kept yelling out vulgar words (well—at Anderson, which _is _understandable). __December 20, 2010: Schizophrenia: Sherlock was moving his lips today and, occasionally, I heard a low inaudible voice coming from his direction. When I left to get some milk, before I left for the holidays, he told me to get some biscuits for his tea party. I simply told him "Sure", and got out of there as quick as I could. _January 22, 2011: Asperger syndrome: I had coffee today with an American mate of mine, who was at a psychiatrist conference in London, where she told me about a fellow classmate who might have Asperger; he has significant difficulties in social interaction, along with restricted and repetitive patterns of behavior and interests._ The comparison is startling._

_November 19, 2011_

_Today, Sherlock watched a documentary about cats. The whole thing without saying a word completely absorbed. Not even the sight of me silently cleaning the kitchen knocked him out of his haze. After the documentary was done, Sherlock said "Hm, I can see why she liked them" and went out for some milk, which he drank out of a bowl when he came home. I'm glad that I went out with Sarah before he began to rub up against my leg. Reminder: buy a scratching post._


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock and John entered their flat, both exhausted, after a night of surveillance outside of a French restaurant, which yielded no results. "I'll put the kettle on", John said with a fatigued sigh as he trudged to the kitchen. As John dug through the cabinets for some teabags and two mugs, Sherlock casually walked over to the living room and saw a thin, elongated object laying on the couch with a gray, wool blanket covering it.

"John? What's this on the couch?" Sherlock said, with his brows furrowed in uncertainty, as he ducked behind a chair and started to study it, carefully, from a distance. "Hm."

John walked out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishrag, oblivious, "Hm?" John lightly smacked Sherlock on his shoulder, "What?"

"What's that?" Sherlock said as he pointed to the object.

John quickly noticed the object on the couch and cowered behind the chair with Sherlock, "What is that?" John asked as he peeked from behind the chair. "If it's another dead body, I'm going to be pissed."

Sherlock sniffed the air, "It doesn't smell bad; it smells pleasantly", he loudly and obnoxiously sniffed the air again. Sherlock, still studying it, gently slapped John on his chest, and said to him, "Go see what it is."

"What?" —John snapped at Sherlock—"Why do I have to?"

"Well", Sherlock started as he continued to look at the object, "if it's a bomb and it kills you at least _I _can find out who killed you", Sherlock glanced at John and lowly pointed to himself, "But, if I checked it and died, my death would never get solved."

"_Fine_", John sighed heavily as he stood up and pointed to Sherlock, still cowering, "but if I die, I'm going to haunt you for the rest of your life."

"Oooh sounds interesting", Sherlock muttered with his eyes widened in curiosity as he nodded. John slowly tip toed to the couch as Sherlock followed John with his eyes. John held his breath as he inched his hand towards the blanket, "Hey!" Sherlock yelled as John quickly snatched his hand back to his chest.

"What?" John whispered fiercely as he stared at Sherlock, cradling his hand to his chest like a mother does to her baby.

"If it explodes, use your body as a shield so I won't get injured", Sherlock said nonchalantly.

"Shhhut up", John hissed as he stared down at the object. "This is a very...delicate...matter", he gradually inched his hand towards the gray blanket again. The kettle wailed and both men jumped about two feet in fright. Sherlock shrunk behind the chair, his hands over his ears, his chin on his knees, as John held his breath and quickly snatched the blanket away. "_Molly_", John said, in breathless anticipation, his face fallen. She lightly moaned in discomfort and annoyance as she leisurely turned her head away from John; her brown hair tousled and her cheeks reddened from sleep, her brows intertwined in soreness, and she attempted to stretch to relieve the pain, but she couldn't move her arms or legs as she was bounded by silky red ribbon.

"What?" Sherlock's voice came loudly from behind and below the chair.

"It's Molly!" John yelled excitedly. "Molly!" he yelled again as he pointed to a sleeping Molly—her arms, hands, and legs tied up with red ribbon and a big red bow where a white tag with black letters met at her chest—"Molly, Molly, Molly!"

"Molly?" Sherlock said breathlessly, but still in a puzzled tone, as he stood up. "Molly!" he said in a thrilled voice (that John could swear was the first time Sherlock sounded excited that didn't involve a murder) with a relived look on his face and his arms open in embrace. It only took him two strides to make it to the couch. "She's alive!" he exclaimed, his arms in the air like he finished the marathon.

"There doesn't seem to be any explosives on her", John said gently, a grin plastered on his face, as he carefully hovered his hands over her body, searching her body, "She looks healthy, although she's a bit thin and pale"—

"But, she's alive!" Sherlock interrupted John by grabbing his shoulders.

"Yeah, yeah", John gushed as he wiggled out of Sherlock's grip, "What does this note say?" he said softly to himself, his brows tangled in confusion, as he leaned over to examine the tag.

"I have to call Lestrade", Sherlock declared as he grabbed his mobile out of his coat pocket and walked towards the door. Sherlock dialed his number and held the phone to his ear as he continued to pace around in exuberance.

"_A gift to you_", John read slowly and quietly, "_Love, Moriarty_", John straightened himself and muttered to himself, "Of course, of course, who else would it be?"

..."No, no", Sherlock said into the mobile, "This isn't a joke. You have to get over here", Sherlock paused and quickly added with a joyful look, "and fast!"

John crotched back down and stared at Molly as Sherlock got off the phone. _'She pretty much looks the same as she did over six months ago'_ John thought and smiled to himself, _'I'm glad she's not dead.' _His face fell in terror and realization, _'Oh crap. How are we going to tell her that her husband's dead?'_

"Lestrade's coming over right away", Sherlock said cheerfully as he stood next to John and placed his mobile back into his coat pocket. "I can't believe she's alive! Who saw this coming?"

"Sherlock", John said softly as he turned his head to Sherlock.

"I didn't even see this coming", Sherlock said animatedly.

"Sherlock", John continued.

Sherlock started to rub his forehead as if he had a migraine, "What?"

"Moriarty did this", John said as he turned his gaze back to Molly.

Sherlock's smile vanished, "I figured as much", he muttered in a somewhat gloomy tone as continued to massage his brow and leisurely walked towards the door.

John stood up and followed Sherlock to the door, "There's something else", he still said softly. "How are we going to explain this to Molly? How...how are we going to tell her that her husband is dead?" John asked in a hushed, bothered tone, and then added quickly, "That's she dead, too?"

Sherlock turned around to face John, his mouth open in mid-thought, and then shut it when nothing came to mind. "I...don't...know", he said slowly in a light, bewildered tone. And for the first time in their friendship, John saw general confusion and pain on Sherlock's face. Sherlock's distant, dazed look—coupled with the thought of explaining to Molly that her husband is dead—made the once blissful, joyful situation depressing and heartbreaking.

Molly gently sighed in content and dream.

* * *

**That's it for a while. I'm mostly out of ideas.**

**And sorry for the somewhat gloomy chapter. I was watching a Holocaust special during it.**


	5. Chapter 5

Molly was awake, but she kept her eyes closed because she sensed something was wrong. _'Why am I tied up?' _She heard voices. Three males were talking with hushed, fierce, and cool tones a few yards away. _'Who's talking?' _Molly lightly sniffed the air, _'Where's Alexander? I can't smell him'_,she sniffed the air again, _'the smell is very familiar, but...but I can't place it.'_ She slightly moved her head, in order to figure out her surroundings. _'So, I'm on a sofa—not a very comfortable one—it's sounds like I'm in London, central to be exact...and I'm on the second or third floor of a building, judging by the distance of the sounds of the streets below. Now who am I with?'_

"Shut up Sherlock", a voice hissed. "This isn't the time for _your_ suggestions."

_'God—god damn it'_, Molly thought as she carefully shuffled her body to loosen the bounds. Her breathing became shallow in anger and her eyes flickered with tears brimming on the edge of her closed eyes. _'Calm down, Molly, calm down', _Molly took a deep breath to compose herself, _'you can kill Sherlock once you're untied—until then...cool as a cucumber_.' Molly took another deep breath and she was still, _'Okay good_.'

..."Okay, okay, okay", someone said in a low, rushed voice, "first we need to untie her and wake her up, and then we can take it from there", and then he added, forcefully, "_slowly and peacefully_."

She recognized the voice; a gruff but calm voice, _'Lestrade? How the hell did Sherlock pull Lestrade into this?'_ Molly heard three sets of heavy footsteps heading to her. She held her breath in anticipation as two sets of hands gently—and awkwardly—released her from her bonds. "Okay", a male voice from above her stammered out once she was untied, "what do we do next?" She assumed that it was John for it wasn't as stoic and cold like Sherlock's or husky like Lestrade.

"Wake her up", Sherlock said, frostily. She could hear him step towards her and could see him motion to Lestrade to shake her awake. "Wake her up now", Molly silently sighed in contempt.

"Um", Lestrade hesitated and Molly held her breath again for two seconds before a firm hand gently shook her shoulder. "Molly, wake up", Lestrade cooed softly.

Molly played dumb as she woke up, "Wha—?" she sighed mellifluously, and her eyes fluttered from the sunlight, as she stretched herself awake. When she opened her eyes completely, she saw Sherlock, John, and Lestrade all staring down at her. "Uh", Molly paused, "hey", she said in a short and uncomfortable tone.

"Looks like she fine", Sherlock muttered, callously, as he strolled away from her to the kitchen.

"Sherlock", John said, firmly like a mother to a child, and sighing in embarrassment.

"What do you want me to say?" Sherlock asked, callously and then faced Molly to say in a practiced, sarcastic tone, "'Oh, Molly, we're _so _glad that you're alright'." Both Lestrade and John sighed in annoyance and mortification as they looked at each other, before standing up and stepping back.

Molly laid there, with a blank look, before standing up, rather quickly, and almost falling; Lestrade and John caught her by both of her arms, "Thanks", she mumbled as she combed her fingers through her hair. She walked towards the door, trying to get away from the three men in an attempt to have some fresh air. "What—what am I doing here?" Molly asked her arms in the air in question.

Molly was responded with a vacant look from Sherlock, an open then shut mouth in mid-thought from Lestrade, and an embarrassed look from John who was trying to hide himself from her eyes.

"Y'know what? I really don't care", Molly said nonchalantly leaving. "I have my honeymoon to go on", she paused and looked back to point at Sherlock, "When I come back Sherlock, I'm going to kill you", she slowly moved her hand back, smiled sweetly at Sherlock, and then continued to walk away, "Arrivederci", she yelled and waved over her shoulder. She was at the stairs before she stopped and, with a bewildered look, glanced back, asking in a faltered voice, "By the way, does anyone know where Alexander is?"

She was responded with the same expressions. Molly's face fell and slowly walked back into the flat, "Where's Alexander?" she asked carefully, not sure whether or not she wanted to know. "Alexander Oliversson...my husband."

Same response as before.

"Where's my husband?" she asked again, but this time with a stern tone and face. She tried to keep her gaze to the chair in fount of her and the men, but her eyes flickered momentarily to Sherlock, who seemed really uncomfortable in his skin. "Lestrade?"

Lestrade's gaze waned, but he said nothing, although his face said that he had bad news.

"John?"

John sighed, and moving his eyes around the room, said nothing.

"Sherlock?" Molly said in disgust.

Sherlock focused his gaze on Molly, but his usually intense stare was softened and had a hint of pity in it, and he held his breath in eagerness, predicting what she was going to do next. _'She's going to fall and cry...and then I'm going to be trapped in a mausoleum of feelings I can neither understand nor reciprocate.'_

Molly entered the flat and started shouting, "Where's my husband! Where's my husband!" By this time, she was leaping and jumping around the room, throwing and tossing papers into the air, and screaming and yelling like a madman (or in her case, a madwoman). She stopped jumping and stared back at the three men; she was breathing heavily, her face was thin and discolored with rage and sorrow, but she wasn't crying, and she was shaking like an old car. The papers behind her fell to the floor like snow.

The three men stared at her in disbelief and shock, "Mm... Molly?" John finally stammered out, his eyes closed and his face turned away from Molly. "We...need to talk", he said quietly.

Molly stiffened her jaw in fear, the hair on the back of her neck rose, and her breath hadn't evened out yet. Off in the distance, a siren wailed.

* * *

**Q&A**

**From wawa: "_And , what , Moriarty is in love whith Sherlock or is it just irony ?"_**

**_—_**_No. Moriarty is mocking Sherlock. The best way I can describe Sherlock's and Moriarty's relationship is to compare it to Batman's and the Joker's relationship. The Joker _always "_plays" and makes some jokes with Batman before he tries to kill him or whatever. That's the way I see Sherlock's and Moriarty's new dynamic. (And, seriously, the comparison between Batman and Sherlock and the Joker and Moriarty is unnerving.)_

**_(If you have questions, but you don't have an account here, I'll try to answer your questions on following chapters...or you could just create an account, but whatever.)_**


	6. Chapter 6

"Please sit down Molly", Lestrade said gently to her, motioning to the chair in fount of them.

"No", Molly said curtly, "Whatever it is, you can tell me when I'm standing up."

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air and turned away from her, clearly irritated.

"Molly", Lestrade started—it was decided that Lestrade would tell Molly that Alexander was dead. It had taken ten minutes for John and Lestrade to settle on that; Lestrade had volunteered John to do it, (_"You're a doctor. You tell people every day that they or a relative is dying"_) and then John had countered by telling Lestrade that he should do it (_"Well, you're a police officer, you deal with the homicide victim's families"_), but it was unanimously voted that Sherlock would not tell her nor would he say anything during the conversation—"Molly", Lestrade said again.

"Yes, yes", Molly muttered, her brows knotted in interest, as she leaned on the chair.

"Alexander...your husband"—Molly held her breath, John hid his face from Molly with his hands, and Sherlock was closely studying the wallpaper—"he's...he's dead."

Molly's face dropped and she blindly touched the chair to sit in it, "How...how could that be?" she said slowly in a faltering, but monotone tone "I was just with him!" she angrily snapped at the men. "He was in the limo with me going to the airport, but then, how did we get here?" —her face cracked into a forced smile—"This is a joke, right?" she asked, crossing her legs. "Not a very funny one and it's in very bad taste and, oh, it's not nice to play tricks on me like that"—

"Molly...this isn't a joke", John said, his voice straining. Sherlock turned his head slightly to peek at Molly.

Molly sighed and sat back in the chair, staring at the coffee table, and said in a completely monotone voice, "Then he really is dead, isn't he." It wasn't a question, it was a stated fact. She glanced up at the men, her face void of any emotion or expression; even Sherlock didn't know what she was thinking. "Hm", she said, biting the inside of her cheek, nodding and staring back at the coffee table, "so this is what it feels like to be a widow", she looked at the men again, "I just didn't expect it this soon, y'know", she continued nodding and then she blinked a couple times.

At that moment, she changed completely. Her eyes became determined and sharp and her voice became silky and smooth. It was still light and feminine, but underneath the sweet tones, there was an edge: dull but deadly. Her posture even changed from slouchy like a hunchback to straight like an arrow. "I say"—she said in a formal, grand tone, looking at the curtains as she casually placed her chin on her hand—"those are very nice curtains", she glanced at John and asked with a small smirk, "Are they new?"

Both John's and Lestrade's mouths were open in shock. "Mo... Molly", John managed to stammer out, "Didn't you hear what we said? Your husband is dead."

"Oh yes, yes", Molly said offhandedly, waving her hand like she was pushing a bad smell away, "I heard you the first time."

"And... you're dead too", John told her, expecting her to become sad—or whatever. Just some kind of emotion.

"I am?" Molly gave a shocked look, "Oh"; she stopped to think, "So this is what it feels like to be dead", she said solemnly then asked in a somewhat contained and cheerful tone with a straight face, "How was my funeral? Was it lovely? Were the eulogies nice? I hope people had kind things to say."

"You don't seem to acting the way I thought you would", Sherlock said slowly, turning to fully face Molly.

"Upset?" Molly asked lightly, as she glanced down to smooth out her jeans. "Am I supposed to cry? Blubber until the end of time?"

"Yeah, that's the way you should be acting!" John yelled, standing up and pointing at Molly. "Eighty-five people died in that aeroplane crash! Don't you have any emotions? Any emotions at all?"

"Oh! Aeroplane crash? Wow, he really went all out to kill me, eh?" Molly said, energized, then asked in a calm voice, "By the way, have you caught 'im yet?" All of the three men stared at her, flabbergasted, "No? Well, then the only emotions I feel is disappointment, especially at you Sherlock—the world's only consulting detective can't catch a simple Irishman", she shook her head at him, "Tsk tsk."

"You're—you're not Molly!" John yelled again, then turned around and lightly muttered to Lestrade and Sherlock. "And you two scoffed at my 'clone' theory."

"How can you say something like that? Uh..." —she paused and then quickly added—"Dr. Watson! See I still don't remember your name."

"Of course, she's Molly", Sherlock sighed, bored, "her face has classical features"—Molly hid a smile—"her lips are too small, her ears stick out, and, her nose sticks up a bit."

"Thank you Sherlock", Molly yelled gladly at him for the first part, but then added sarcastically after the rest of it caught up with her brain, "I guess."

"I don't know", Lestrade, said slowly, coming out of his trance, "her reaction _does _seem very un-Molly like."

"What the hell is 'Molly like'?" Molly snapped at Lestrade.

"Well, you know", Sherlock answered coldly, "Stuttering, but quiet woman who needs to build up her confidence every time she speaks to living people"—

"That's it!" Molly yelled standing up, she was shaking again, but this time in anger, "What do you know what's Molly and un-Molly? You don't know anything about me! All you know is that I'm a little, mousy, forensic pathologist"—she then pointed to Sherlock—"with a crush on Sherlock"—she frowned a bit—"but none of that's true! The only bit that's true is the forensic pathologist part." She stomped towards the door, "Maybe this _is_ how I grieve! And if you don't like that then...then"—_'Going a bit overboard there, Molly'_—go whatever yourself!" she yelled as she grabbed a black trench coat from a wall hook and ran down the stairs and out the door.

"That was my coat", Sherlock mumbled softly as John massaged the back of his neck.

"Charming", John muttered, "we did _so _well", he said to Lestrade. "Telling her how to act...how to mourn...how she was supposed to be feeling. We did a brilliant job."

"_'Your reaction is very un-Molly like'_", Lestrade garbled under his breath. "What the hell did I mean by that?" Lestrade harshly asked John.

"You two did a perfect job", Sherlock said mockingly, "a marvelous job", Sherlock smirked as he walked towards the kitchen, "And you thought I was going to mess it up by talking", he exclaimed, pointing to himself. "'_Let's not have Sherlock talk because I'm a detective_"—Sherlock flickered his eyes to Lestrade and then to John—"_and I'm a doctor and we know how to talk to people and break bad news to them'_", Sherlock paused, "How you two are a respected in your professions astonishes me."

"Sherlock", John groaned quietly as he sat down.

"No!" Sherlock yelled at John, "Molly just ran out that door"—he pointed in the general direction of the exit—"before we could interrogate her and _I'm _not even sure she'll come back...and when!" Sherlock sighed and then added, "And she took my damn coat!" he moved towards his bedroom door, "I love that coat...it's so warm and soft", still yelling, shaking his head and rubbing his arms. "I'm going to bed", he muttered darkly as he went into his bedroom and slammed the door.

* * *

**_I'm sorry if you don't like the New Molly, or Old Molly, or Great Taste Less Filling Molly, but I'll give you the explanation (not the full one, mind you) of why she acted like that in the next chapter._**


	7. Chapter 7

It was after four in the morning when the fount door of 221 Baker Street was silently opened and closed as a petite black figure slipped in. From upstairs, the sound of a violin harshly playing the ending of the third movement of Mendelssohn Violin Concerto floated downstairs. Molly took off her pumps and carefully and silently climbed the steps in her stocking feet, trying to avoid the creaky, and the non-carpet spots on the stairs. As she cautiously stepped onto the landing, the violin suddenly stopped playing and she heard the soft moan of the sofa.

Molly held her breath in apprehension, but calmly breathed out as she heard the footsteps moving away from her. She slung his coat over her right arm and noiselessly tiptoed into 221B, to place his coat back on the wall hook. She calmly breathed out again as she snuck out the door.

"Have some coffee before you disappear again", said a low, dark voice behind her as she stood on top of the stairs. She turned her head to see Sherlock, with two mugs of steaming coffee in his hands.

"Sure", she mumbled, slowly, pushing a loose piece of hair behind her ear, as Sherlock gave her a mug, "It'll be nice to rest my feet."

"Sorry if the coffee tastes funny", he strolled back to the sofa, and "John or Mrs. Hudson makes the coffee."

"It's something called a coffee maker", she sat down in a chair and delicately placed her feet on the coffee table.

Sherlock scoffed, "John refuses to buy another one after I _dismantled _the last two and Mrs. Hudson doesn't have one anymore after I blew _hers _up."

"Of course", Molly said curtly, nodding. "I brought back your coat", she pointed to his coat with her left hand, carefully trying not to show her right hand.

"Yeah thanks", Sherlock sipped his coffee.

She frowned and bit her bottom lip, "Sorry about taking your coat. I just needed to get out and all"... She sipped her coffee and tried to keep a sour look from her face.

Sherlock shrugged, "I understand, I suppose."

There was a few moments of somewhat comfortable silence before Molly broke it by saying, "Oh, before I forget, I found some money in your coat pocket so I bought this coat"—she gestured to the red, wool trench coat she was now wearing—"I'll pay you back as soon as I get some money. I'm sorry."

Sherlock shrugged, "It wasn't my money anyways, but that'll be fine", he said with a bored tone. He noticed Molly's right hand, which had two small cuts and a bruise on her knuckles, "Fighting?"

"Um, no", Molly stammered out as she quickly covered her right hand with her left arm as she crossed her arms, "After I ran out, I punched a wall...in rage."

"Mm-hm", Sherlock said in a doubtful tone and nodded.

"You're not going to explore it any further? You're going to leave it at that?"

Sherlock shrugged and said in an uninterested voice, "The wall probably deserved it, besides", and his eyes flickered to Molly, "I don't want you running off again."

Molly blushed and shook her head in frustration, "You Holmes Brothers...I can never predict what you'll do next."

"You've met my brother?"

"Yes", Molly put the cup to her lips, but did not drink, "A few days after you started coming 'round the morgue, he kidnapped me—'cause that's what he does—and offered to pay me to spy on you. I told him that for the right price I would. He offered a hundred pounds a week; I declined, telling him that if he wants spies he's going to have to learn to pay some _real money_", Molly took her feet off the table and placed her mug on the table. "By the way, do you happen to know when Lestrade goes into work?"

"I'm not his babysitter", Sherlock said severely.

"Oh", Molly mumbled feebly, "I just _assumed _that you knew."

"He's usually in by six and if he's not in his office or in the loo then he's in the coffee shop across from the station", he drank his coffee.

"Then why didn't you say that in the first place?" she snapped callously.

"Why do you _assume_ that I know Lestrade's schedule?"

Molly shrugged, "Because you're Sherlock Holmes...and if you knew my shifts it's safe to _assume_ that you know Lestrade's."

"When you're going to see Lestrade, I think it would be best if John and I came with you."

"_I_ don't think that would be the best idea", Molly mumbled. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond—"And if you only wanted to come along because you think that I'll talk about my six months absence, save your breath"—she titled her head up to glance down at him—"I don't remember _anything_."

"Nothing? Nothing at all?" Sherlock asked his eyebrow cocked.

Molly leaned forward—which caused Sherlock to lean towards her as well—and purred to him, "I don't know...why don't you figure out what happened", Molly leaned back; "Now **that **sounds interesting."

"It sounds _very _interesting actually, but that would involve _you _being around me"...Sherlock finished his coffee while Molly's face turned as red as her coat and held her breath..."I've been getting the feeling you're not my biggest fan."

"You did that to me on purpose!" ...Molly cried to shrugging Sherlock..."And let's have this discussion when _I'm not _being fueled solely by caffeine. Our banter will be more exciting and clever. I don't want to resort to 'your mom' and 'your face' jokes."

"Yeah because those are the lowest form of wit."

"Face, face, face, face, face! If we keep going the way we're going now, just imagine a bunch of those" Molly pointed to the floor, "You have a face of a saint...a Saint Bernard! Ooooooh!" Molly started laughing as she stood up, glanced down at Sherlock—who was frowning and had a look of pain—and then choked out, "I should get going before you kill me"; she slipped on her pumps and strolled to the door. "Oh", she spun around to see Sherlock, who intently looked at her, "Just because your violin tutor walked out on you during the basics does not mean you can take it out on Mendelssohn."

"What?" he asked harshly.

"You're playing it too severely. You're not slicing a piece of meat; you're supposed to be _gliding _through Mendelssohn", Molly winked at Sherlock as she spun back around before he could respond back, "Good morning", she said cheerfully to a sleepy, olive-green-robe-wearing John and then ran down the stairs.

John ambled in and pointed to the fount door, "Was that Molly or my sleep induced hallucinations?"

"That was Molly", Sherlock nodded, "and, John...you have a face of a saint."

John rubbed his face, a gleeful smile on his face, "Oh, well, thank"—

—"A Saint Bernard! Ooooh!" Sherlock spat out.

John nodded his head, a saddened look on his face, "I should have seen that one coming."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock and John entered their flat, both exhausted and dirty, after seven hours of chasing a French poodle, which they still hadn't found. "I'll put the kettle on", John said with a fatigued sigh as he trudged to the kitchen. As John noisily dug through the cabinets for some teabags and two mugs, Sherlock casually walked over to the living room and was surprised to see a sleeping Molly sprawled on the couch wearing an open gray, wool trench coat to reveal a striped dark blue dress. He stared at her, his head cocked in amusement and fascination.

"You're a sight to wake up to", Molly muttered, her eyes still close.

"You're a sight to come home to", Sherlock said with a bored tone then added in a more enthused tone, "Sleeping Beauty."

Molly faintly blushed and smiled, and opened her eyes slightly to look at him, but then said in a jaded voice, "Find that French poodle yet?"

"No", Sherlock sat down in a chair.

"Mycroft got all upset and mentioned something about you chasing a French poodle through a restaurant", Molly sighed and placed her arm on her forehead to somewhat shield her eyes from the light.

"I see that Mycroft has finally upgraded his surveillance."

"Yeah, you went from a blue to a yellow. If you want, I'll help you search for the dog later", Molly looked at Sherlock with her red, weary eye. "Maybe."

"If you want", Sherlock shrugged.

Molly sighed a worn out moan, "I have a new name", and she gestured to a pile of papers on the coffee table.

Sherlock took the stack of papers and flipped through them, "_Irene Alder_", he took out an American passport. "_20th of March, 1979; Cassel, New Jersey_."

"I wanted to be from Texas", Molly said, sitting up, "so I could say cool things like 'y'all' or 'two shakes of a rabbit's ass", she stretched.

"And Mycroft got you all this?" Sherlock glanced through the papers.

"Yeah", she rubbed her face, "a higher up in the American government owed him a favour. When I asked who it was, he told me, nonchalantly, that it was Obama."

Sherlock stopped flipping through the papers and a lost, confused look appeared on his face.

"Barack Obama? The single most powerful man in the world?" Molly stammered out; Sherlock's face did not change at all, "The President of the United States."

"Oh", Sherlock muttered as he continued to read her papers, "okay, I see now."

Her brows furrowed in thought and she muttered to herself, "I just have to remember to speak in an American accent"—her accent changed to American—"and use American slang. The loo is now the bathroom, potty, the John"...

"Oh, hello, Molly", John said cheerfully as he walked in with two steaming mugs. "I didn't know you were here", he handed a cup to Sherlock.

Sherlock added quickly, "Her name is Irene Adler now", he sipped his tea.

"Oh, sorry", John mumbled as he switched the cup to his other hand.

"Oh, Molly's still fine. I don't want the ties to my past to be cut off _completely_", Molly's hands fidgeted, "If they wanted that, they wouldn't keep me here in London."

"So you're staying in London?" John lifted his cup to drink, but quickly stopped, "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you...actually I need to get going", Molly stood up and grabbed the papers from Sherlock's lap, "if I'm going to be an American I need to fully commit to it", she walked towards the door, "So, if you'll excuse me, I need to go gain fifty pounds", she waved, "Later."

John waited until he heard the closing of the fount door before he spoke to Sherlock, "Irene Adler?"

"With the help of Mycroft and Obama, Molly has a new identity"; Sherlock said indifferently as he took another sip.

"Obama?" John whispered and knotted in brows in puzzlement.

Sherlock looked at John, "Yes, yes, the President of the United States. Just found that out actually", then muttered, "I just hope I didn't delete anything in the process."

The sound of the fount door was opening drifted up and the sounds of a large object being followed by a small object bounded up the stairs, "I found your dog", Molly said causally, lifting up the rope that was tied to the French poodle, "She was just down the street, I'm afraid."

"Thank you", John stood up and took the leash from Molly, "thank you so very much", he smiled warmly at her.

"Ah, don't mention it"; Molly smiled back a warm smirk, "it was entirely my pleasure. Oh, by the way, my fla"—she stopped herself—"I mean my apartment is a few blocks down so"...Molly waved again, "Lates", she ran down the stairs again and left.

* * *

**I always liked the idea that Molly Hopper wasn't who she appeared to be and the fact that Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler may or may not have had a romantic relationship just makes the idea of Molly Hopper's name being changed to Irene Adler makes this even juicer.**

**(Side note: Next chapter may take a while. I'm pretty much out of ideas. SORRY!)**


	9. Chapter 9

**_I deleted the previous chapter, the former chapter nine. I was going through (and, also trying to write the tenth chapter) and I found that I didn't quite like it in the least bit. What Molly had said about her sleeping patterns in the former chapter nine; forget about it for about _two _seconds during the first part, but then you can remember it during the second part of this chapter. I revised the second half of chapter nine (formerly) and, although some of the sentences are _exactly _as they were before, the context of them are somewhat different._**

* * *

According to the news media—the newspaper, television, and radio alike—a similar series of murders, thefts, and assaults have been committed in the last three months (from November 7, 2011 to now), in the United Kingdom and even across the English Channel into France, Germany, Belgium, and the Netherlands. Twenty-one murders, thirty-six thefts, and twenty-nine assaults in total. By the time the authorities of the five countries realized the connections, it was already late January and there were seventy-two victims, almost a victim a day.

The events are as follow:

All of the eighty-six victims were found early in the morning, usually by eight; supposedly, exactly six hours after the crime took place. The crimes were mostly committed in the victims' houses (which were all locked), but, sometimes, the location varied from alleys to parks according to the time, place, and crime. The murder victims would always be found in their homes on their backs with their throats cleanly slit by a three-inch blade, with a red tulip in their hand (the left hand for the even number victims, the right hand for the odd) whilst the assault and theft victims would be found on their stomachs with the red tulip vertically placed on their backs, with no visible signs of injury and no sign of poison or drugs in their systems, although bruises would appear at their shoulders and hips by the next day. The victims would also remember nothing; however, twenty of the sixty-five thefts and assault victims remembered hearing classical music along with a feeling of despair and fear right before they became unconscious. In addition, five out of these twenty saw a semi-transparent dark splotch out of the corner of their eyes as they walked towards the music, apparently in some sort of a trance state.

It wasn't until the seventy-third victim—and the twenty-third assault—that the classical music was finally documented as Igor Stravinsky's _The Rite of Spring*_. "About five and a half minutes into the first act", the victim, told York police, "y'know when the Virgins come dancing in and dance for thirty seconds—I only 'eard about forty-five seconds of it before blacking out. But, the last fifteen seconds—that's when the sense of terror overcame me and I became _very _afraid for my life."

Moreover, it wasn't until the eighty-first victim—and the twenty-first murder—that a witness came forward, who was walking their dog in the streets of Essen, Germany when they saw a "flash of black with a face of gold" bolt from the apartment of thirty-three-year old engineer, Kurt Oppenheimer, at around two in the morning. The witness described the "flash of black with a face of gold" silently leap off the roof of Oppenheimer's apartment building across to the roof of the other building, "quite easily and swiftly, like a ninja", they stressed, and saw nothing else. Oppenheimer was later discovered in his bed with a look of serenity and peacefulness on his face, his throat neatly cut, and a red tulip in his right hand. The lead detective even stated in his report that Oppenheimer had "looked like he was sleeping...there was no sign of blood anywhere on the sheets and there was only a few droplets on the pillows". The two doors that led to the roof of the building were later found closed and locked with no sign of forced or any kind of entry, along with the doors and windows of Oppenheimer's apartment and the tenants reported no sounds or disturbances that night. Oppenheimer's time of death was estimated at two that morning by the medical examiner and nothing appeared to have been stolen.

None of the victims had anything in common. Only ten of the victims were doctors, but all in different fields and none of them had met while the other seventy-four were of various professions ranging from a carpenter to a sales assistant, and, once again, none of them had ever met or come across each other and had nothing really in common, with the expectations that a few of the victims watched the same show.

The items stolen from the thirty-six people were objects that weren't immediately realized as being stolen until much later; they were pretty ordinary objects such as a fake marble bust of American president Abraham Lincoln stolen from a twenty-one-year old writer in Dublin, Ireland; a thirty-year old diary from a seventy-year old grandmother in Cherbourg, France; and a forty-seven-year old record of _Maria Callas Sings Verdi Arias—Othello, Don Carlo, Aroldo_ from a forty-three-year old headmaster in Brussels, Belgium. None of the items has been found as of this writing and the combined forces of the five countries (who have actually created their own united task force) believe that these crimes are the work of a group or groups.

* * *

"Have you heard about these killers with golden masks?" Molly asked Sherlock with an indifferent, bored, tone—but with a dull edge of enthusiasm towards the end—as she placed her dark blue peacock coat onto the wall hook. Two weeks had gone by without a hint of Moriarty; Molly had begun to show up at the flat, at the random times that Sherlock and John happen to be there, for a cup of tea for about ten minutes before giving a vague excuse and leaving in a rush. It was six o'clock on a Thursday night, on February 9, 2012; John was out on a date with Sarah and Sherlock was reading the _Daily Mail_, a thick perfume of odium and malice in the air around him.

"Eh", Sherlock muttered in a bored, flat tone as he turned the page, "Twenty-one murders, thirty-six thefts, and twenty-nine assaults all committed by a gang of golden masked assassins who can"—he then said in an exaggerated, excited tone—"'walk through walls' and 'fly like birds'."

"Hm, I'm surprised you're not interested", Molly sat down on the couch; "It seems like a good opportunity to show off in fount of a task force comprising of some of the best law enforcement officers of five countries."

"While that _does _sound tempting"—he glanced over the newspaper at Molly—"I've got bigger fish to fry", he then went back to reading the newspaper.

Molly shrugged and then started to slowly rub her eyes and face with the palms of her hands for a minute before Sherlock asked, in a jaded tone, "You must be tired", Sherlock glanced at Molly again, "What? You must be getting two or three hours of sleep?"

"Not even that!" Molly shook her head faintly and muttered in frustration, "I haven't been sleeping _at all_", she continued to shake her head, "I go to bed at eleven, sleep for an hour, before waking up at midnight in cold sweats, on the verge of screaming", she sighed hopelessly, "then I lie in bed for half an hour, trying to dump everything out of my head to fall back asleep, until twelve thirty"...Molly bit her bottom lip in thought and trailed off, intently studying at her feet. "And then, at eight, I'm either in fount of 221 Baker Street, or on the London docks, or in the park", Molly gazed at Sherlock, "Once I found myself on the Chunnel, coming back from France."

"What happens at twelve thirty?" Sherlock lowered his newspaper down and examined her, his brows intertwined in interest. _'Finally...some action.'_

Molly looked down and bit her bottom lip again, her brows furrowed in thought, before slowly saying and looking back at Sherlock, with a lost look, "I...I don't know. The odd thing is that—when I wake up...I'm dressed", Molly exhaled a rattled breath, "so I can't be sleepwalking, because my makeup and hair is done flawlessly", she placed her index finger to her mouth, "and I'm always_ so _exhausted and worn out. I feel like the floor of a taxi cab."

Sherlock let out an impassive, uninterested sigh and went back to his newspaper, "Oh, I don't know, take some damn sleeping pills or something"; his mind quickly listed possible diagnoses, _'Insomnia. Psychogenic amnesia and depression without psychotic features. Acute psychotic episode under extreme stress, aggression during an amnesic drug-related state. Potential case of homicidal somnambulism or volitional (deliberate) homicide with stress-induced amnesia and complex partial epileptic seizures with automatic behavior—keep an eye out for that.'_

"I have", Molly said sharply, "And—oh—before you started 'diagnosing' me, Sherlock, I don't have a history of sleep trouble, bed wetting, sleep walking, or any of that...and neither does my family, so you can get rid of your whole Ken Parks theory. Furthermore, I've tried _all _of the sleeping tricks, but nothing works. I've even locked my doors and windows and, yet, I always find myself in the middle of nowhere, with no memory of how I got there", Molly paused, looked at Sherlock or, rather, the newspaper, and then added, "Moreover, I really don't like the tone you're giving me."

"Oh, sorry, that I don't like hearing people complain about their problems", Sherlock said sarcastically and callously as he shook his newspaper loudly, "Catch me on a day I can muster up some interest."

"A-ha", Molly pointed at Sherlock, "so that twenty minute **bitch fest** you gave me after I was gone for a few days for my grandmother's funeral doesn't count, hm?" Molly clapped her hands together, lightly, in recognition, and then said in a mean, cynical tone, "Oh, but, of course not, because you're Sherlock Holmes and we mortals are no match for you", she said in a singsong voice, but then continued in a firm, mean voice, "But, you better be careful up on that pedestal or else you'll fall off and have to walk along down here with the rest of us and—I don't know?—maybe catch a glimpse of yourself in a surface of a pool or a window, and, trust me"—she said this is a nice, sweet tone, "dear, you're not going to like what you see."

Sherlock said nothing, but his grip on the newspaper tightened, ever so slightly, and that's all Molly needed to see to know that she had finally won a round against Sherlock Holmes.

_'It would have been better with spectators, but, a girl can't have everything.'_ Molly smiled a sickly sugary smile and then glanced at a clock, "I gotta go", and she said standing up, the smile still plastered on her face, her tone suggesting that she thought nothing of ill had just occurred. "Mycroft has me going on another date and I can't be late for it", Molly muttered as she pulled a her coat on over a black dress with faded red flowers and adjusted the collar on the coat, "the last time I was late Mycroft sent me on a date with an ass-grabbing, ass face", she shudders. "Ugh", she waved, "I'll see you later."

Sherlock merely cleared his throat and shook the newspaper again to straighten it, "Well, that's simply not true at all", he cleared his throat again, "What makes her think I'll fall off my pedestal?"

* * *

*_**= a 1913 ballet by Russian composer Igor Stravinsky and Polish choreographer Vaslav Nijinsky.**_

_**.com/watch?v=jF1OQkHybEQ (youtube) (**__**The bit is at 4:55 till about 5:33.)**_


End file.
